Embrace Chaos
by Bohemian Storm
Summary: *on hiatus* What would have happened if Ginny had never used Tom Riddle's diary? What if someone else had picked it up? Someone like Draco Malfoy. Alternate Universe.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer:  They all belong to J.K. Rowling, not me!

Notes:  This is an alternate universe where Draco takes Tom Riddle's diary rather than Ginny Weasley and this switch in owner has some horrible consequences.  The prologue is mostly a re-write of the chapter in Flourish and Blotts where Mr. Malfoy gives the diary to Ginny.

**Embrace Chaos**

By Bohemian Storm

_"This is not the path I thought._

_This is not the place I sought._

_This is not the dream I bought,_

_just__ a fever of fate I've caught."  
- The Book of Counted Sorrows_

Prologue

            Draco Malfoy leaned over the railing on the upper floor of Flourish and Blotts watching Gilderoy Lockhart prance about below him with Harry Potter glued to his side.  The poncy git had just announced for the world to hear that he'd be taking over Quirrell's empty position as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts for Draco's second year.  The young Slytherin hadn't cared much for Quirrell but seeing Lockhart's face every day alongside Potter's would be absolutely unbearable.

            With a sneer, he watched Potter tip his brand new Lockhart collection into the Weasley girl's cauldron, edging toward the outskirts of the crowd.  Draco's eyes narrowed and he sauntered down the stairs toward Potter and the rest of the Weasley family.

            "Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?" he snapped, making his presence clearly known.  "Famous Harry Potter," he sneered.  "Can't even go into a book shop without making the front page."

            He watched, hoping that this would be the time that Potter would try to curse him in front of all these responsible adults.  There was nothing Draco loved more than getting Harry Potter into trouble.

            "Leave him alone, he didn't want all that!" the Weasley girl snapped.  She was glaring at Draco, her eyes narrowed.

            Draco arched an eyebrow.  "Potter, you've got yourself a _girlfriend_!"

            The Weasley girl turned scarlet and backed away quickly as Ron Weasley and the annoying little mudblood Hermione Granger wrestled their way through the crowd.

            Weasley stopped and stared at Draco unpleasantly.  "Oh, it's you.  Bet you're surprised to see Harry here, eh?"

            "Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,"  Draco drawled, grinning maliciously.  "I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for that lot."  He watched, still grinning as Weasley tried to fight his way over, restrained only by Potter and Granger.  Even as Weasley's father struggled over Draco knew he had won.  He could feel the cool presence of his own father behind him and a moment later a cold hand dropped onto his shoulder.

            "Ron!" Mr. Weasley exclaimed.  "What are you doing?  It's mad in here, let's go outside."

            Draco's father cleared his throat and said, "Well, well, well -Arthur Weasley."

            "Lucius," Mr. Weasley replied, inclining his head slightly.

            Draco could feel his father's hand tightening slightly on his shoulder as the lack of respect the Weasley's had for their family.  He understood perfectly . . . he hated the way Ron Weasley thought he was better than the Malfoys.

            "Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," his father continued coolly.  "All those raids . . . I hope they're paying you overtime?"  He reached downward and pulled a battered copy of _A Beginner's Guide to _Transfiguration_ from Ginny's cauldron, smiling arrogantly at it._

            "Obviously not," he said sharply.  "Dear me, what's the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"

            Draco watched in amusement as Mr. Weasley flushed a very dark shade of red before speaking very carefully.  

            "We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy."

            Draco could feel the cold smile on his father's face.  "Clearly."  His eyes strayed to where Hermione's parents were watching the interaction, apprehension in their eyes.

            "The company you keep, Weasley . . . and I thought your family could sink no lower-"

            Draco stepped quickly out of the way when Mr. Weasley tackled his father and drove them both into a bookshelf.  Spell books of all sizes came raining down upon them and Draco smirked, wondering just what his father would do when all was said and done.  He wouldn't stoop to fisticuffs but when Weasley's back was turned he'd find something to damage him.

            Moments later the fight was broken up by Hagrid, pulling both Mr. Weasley and Draco's father apart.  Draco could see a bruise forming where a spell book had hit his father's eye, but he was still clutching Ginny Weasley's transfiguration book in one hand.  Draco paused, studying his father's hand and noting the worn, black leather book behind the transfiguration book.  

            "Here girl," he snarled, thrusting both books back into her cauldron.  "Take your book - it's the best your father can give you."  He straightened his robes and swept from the shop, leaving Draco behind to smirk and gloat to his heart's content.

            "What's in your cauldron, Gin?" Weasley asked, fingering the worn notebook Draco had seen earlier.

            She shrugged and pulled it out.  "I don't know.  It's not mine."

            "Just leave it," Mr. Weasley said, taking it from her hands and dropping it into a shelf.  "We have a lot to do today and no time to waste."

            As they walked by both Potter and Weasley cast loathing glares in Draco's direction, but he just fixed a self righteous smirk on his face and waited until they were out of the store.  The second the door closed behind them he walked toward the shelf Mr. Weasley had left the book on and picked it up, turning it over in his hands.  It looked as ordinary as any other notebook and Draco flipped through the empty pages looking for anything that might indicate why his father had wanted to be rid of it.  There was nothing on the inside cover, just yellowed pages with absolutely nothing written on them.

            His lip curled upward and he was about to toss it back down on the counter when the name stamped on the back caught his eye.  It was faded slightly, as if the book had been handled many times, but Draco could still read the name perfectly.  It was a name he had grown up hearing about; a name that had once meant the downfall of all but the most faithful.

            Tom Marvolo Riddle.

            So this had been Voldemort's diary at one point.  Draco smiled, tucking it carefully into his robes.  He didn't know what it could do yet but there was no doubt it would be very useful to him.  He didn't know why his father would possibly want to get rid of it, not when there could be dark secrets stored within it's pages.  Perhaps his father knew something about the book that he didn't, but Draco wasn't going to pass up the golden opportunity to show up his own father.  If there was something in this diary he was going to find it.  Draco Malfoy wasn't going to let this diary out of his hands.  Ever.

            If only Ginny Weasley had taken Tom Riddle's diary . . . things would have been very different.

End Prologue


	2. Chapter 1

Warnings:  I forgot to do this in the last chapter, but I'll warn you now.  This fic is most likely going to be quite dark.  The rating may even go up to R, depending on how things play out.

Chapter One

            Draco Malfoy sighed heavily before dropping to his bed in the Slytherin boy's dormitory.  It was only the second week back and already he was more bored with Hogwarts than he'd ever imagined.  For a very, very short span of time he had been amused by the look on Potter's face when it was announced that he was the new Slytherin Seeker.  That excitement hadn't lasted long, especially after Granger's little insult about having to buy his way onto the team.  He wasn't the type to let things like that get to him but she was just so annoying, so insolent.  Draco hated her, he wanted to hurt her so badly that she'd never make another smart ass remark to him again.

            His lips tightened at the memory of her waspish comments and he sat up again, reaching for his trunk and rummaging through.  There had to be something his mother packed for him that would take his mind off things.  Exploding Snaps, Wizard's chess, even a pathetic chocolate frog would suffice at the moment.  Draco tossed things aside, an unused spell book thumping loudly to the floor and uncovering a leather bound book.

            He picked it up and frowned before remembering why he'd taken it from the book shop only weeks earlier.  It had been Voldemort's diary and at the time he had thought there was something important in it.  But after spending hours pouring over it Draco had decided it was just a rubbish old book and had thrown it into his trunk and promptly forgotten about it.  He had always wondered by the Dark Lord had kept a diary, of all things.  A diary, for Merlin's sake . . . if that wasn't a horribly sissy thing to do then Draco didn't know what was.  The Dark Lord's sixteen year old self had written in a diary.

            "Can't be all bad then," he muttered closing the trunk and opening the book to the first page.  His quill and ink sat on his beside table and he reached for them, nearly knocking over the inkwell in the process.  If Voldemort had done it he could do it.  Maybe it helped, maybe it would be better than sitting alone in the dormitory, stewing about Harry Potter and his annoying friends.

            With another sigh, Draco dipped his quill into the inkwell, then scrawled his name across the top of the page.  He paused for a moment, debating whether or not to scratch out what he had written when the ink seemed to shimmer and sink into the page.  Draco blinked, then turned to the next page but it was as blank as all the others.  

            "Well, that's a benefit," he breathed.  At least he wouldn't have to worry about one of his house mates finding the notebook and spreading around the school that Draco Malfoy wrote in a girly little diary.  He flipped back to the first page and dipped his quill into the ink and set to work.

            // 12 September, 1992

            Don't know why I'm writing in this bloody thing.  Suppose it's to take my mind off Granger and her bloody annoying comments.  I never thought I'd be writing in a diary.  It seems sissy, like something Potter would do.  Writing stupid love poems about his stupid girlfriend.  

            This is silly.  What the hell can a bloody book do for me?  Make me feel better?  Right.

            _You could always speak with me. //_

            Draco stopped writing and watched the words shimmer on the page for a moment before disappearing with his own.  He had nearly dropped his quill when they had appeared on the page and it now hung between his middle and index fingers.  There was someone in the book . . . someone who was writing back to him.  Was he expected to write back?

            // _Don't__ you want to talk to me? //_

            Draco paused for a long moment, staring as the word vanished once more, then took up his quill and began to write.

            // And who're you?

            _You know my name, Draco Malfoy._

            How do you know mine?

            _You told me.  Earlier. _

            I wrote my name in this book.

            _My book, Draco.  _

            You're Tom Riddle?

            _I am Tom Marvolo Riddle.  I've been trapped in this book for the past fifty years._

            You weren't.

            _I . . . wasn't?  I wasn't what?_

            You weren't trapped in this book.  You were out . . . you were Lord Voldemort.

            _I was Lord Voldemort._

            Yes.  You ruled the entire wizarding world.

            _As far as this book goes I only made it to sixteen.  I remember things and I know things, but I'm still only sixteen._

            Wow . . . sixteen.  You're not much older than I am now.  Only three years.  This is incredible.  The Dark Lord is inside my book and only three years older than me.

            _I'm not just trapped, Draco.  I have ways to see and hear what's happening.  But things would be so much easier if you were willing to be my eyes and ears._

            Me?  Why me?

            _I know your family name very well.  How are Lucius and Narcissa?_

            You know my parents?

            _Very well.  They were two of my most faithful followers.  _

            I knew that.  They told me when I was very young, they were training me, I suppose.

            _Training you for what?_

            For the day you came back.

            _They thought I would come back, did they?_

            They still think it and hope for it.

            _You know what I am, Draco, what I'll become if I get out of this, don't you?_

            Of course I know.

            _I need help.  I can't do it alone._

            . . . Are you planning on getting out of the book?

            _Always._

            And you need help?

            _Yes._

            My help?

            _Yes.  Will you be my eyes and ears, Draco?_

             . . . Yes.

            _Are you certain?_

            Will it help you?

            _Very much so._

            And will it . . .

            _Will it what, Draco?_

            Will people get hurt?

            _. . . I don't know.  I can't promise that they won't._

            I don't care.  I'll help you.

            _Do you promise, Draco?_

            I promise.

            _Thank you.  Thank you._

            Tom . . . 

            . . . 

            Tom, are you still here? \\

            Draco rocked backward on his bed and put his quill on the bedside table, staring at the remaining words before they disappeared into the page.  He had spoken with him, with Tom Riddle, the boy who would become Lord Voldemort.  And he was going to be his eyes and ears.  He would show Tom the entire castle from top to bottom, exploring every single crevice that he wanted to see.  If he could find a way to bring him back . . . things would be far more perfect than ever before.  If Draco could bring Tom back from the diary he would be hailed as the mere child who helped in the return of Lord Voldemort.

            A sly grin crossed Draco's face.  He couldn't wait to begin.

*

            Blaise Zabini sighed and tucked her legs under her on the leather couch in the Slytherin common room.  Barely three weeks had passed at Hogwarts and already she was floundering under a pile of text books and homework assignments.  It was only her second year and she was already feeling the pressure from her teachers about her O.W.L.s.  It didn't help that she was in Slytherin and half the people in her year (and more than half in the years ahead of her) spent the majority of their time trying to copy her homework.

            "Sod off!" she snapped as Tracey Davis snuck her oversized nose into Blaise's scroll for what seemed like the tenth time that evening.

            Tracey glared at her.  "All I wanted was a little help, Blaise."

            "Well, if you'd paid attention in Potions you wouldn't need help, Davis," snarled Queenie Greengrass from where she sat across from them.  

            "I didn't ask you, Queenie," Tracey said briskly, but got up and flounced over to another chair anyway.

            Blaise watched her go, and then flipped the ends of her red hair over her shoulder.  "I don't know why she thinks we want her around," she said softly, her eyes shifting to the Potions book in front of her.  "We're not exactly nice to her, are we?"

            Queenie shook her head, light waves falling over her face.  She brushed them back impatiently and made a note of something in the book.  "She's a stuck up little brat who thinks she can get anything just because she's a pureblood."

            Blaise glanced up, a slightly amused grin on her face.  "Queenie, you're a pureblood."

            Queenie smiled.  "I know.  But I'm not a stuck up brat."

            The friends fell silent and went back to working on their essays.  The common room was crowded enough that the low murmur of voices was comforting, but not too crowded that it became annoying.  Crabbe and Goyle were watching a particularly violent game of Wizard's chess between Draco Malfoy and another first year boy that Blaise didn't know.  With a smirk, she realized the reason why Crabbe and Goyle always watched rather than played.

            "Too thick to start your own game, boys?" she called sweetly to them.

            Draco's eyes flashed toward her, pining her down with his gaze.  She hadn't even been addressing him and he still had the gall to stare at her like she'd insulted him personally.

            "They're just your goons, Draco," she said.  "You don't need to protect them all the time."

            A smile twitched at the corner of his lips and he turned back to the chess game, letting Crabbe and Goyle work out for themselves exactly what Blaise had said to them.

            "Was that a . . . y'know, an insult?" Crabbe asked.

            Goyle shrugged his thick shoulders and went back to staring blankly at the chess board as Draco's bishop ruthlessly smashed the younger boy's king.

            "They're idiots," Queenie breathed, still staring at her homework.  Her dark eyes flashed briefly in the direction of Draco and the others but she seemed to think them unworthy of even her gaze.  "How do they get passing grades in all their classes?  They never do any work."

            "Snape," Blaise murmured, referring to their Potions professor and the head of Slytherin house.  "He favours Malfoy and if he favours Malfoy he has to favour his goons.  It's a big chain of favouritism."

            "I sure wish he favoured me," Queenie grumbled, staring at her essay.  "Three feet of essay and we're not even finished the first month."

            Blaise nodded, her eyes darting back and forth between her half finished essay and Draco's game.  Draco was currently collecting his winnings from the first year . . . it looked like at least ten sickles.  She rolled her eyes; it was disgusting what some kids would do with the money their parents gave them for the year.  Since they couldn't go into Hogsmeade yet most of it was spent betting on chess games or Quidditch matches and the rest went into a healthy supply of Zonko's tricks bought for them by the older kids.

            "Are you watching him again, Blaise?" Queenie asked, following her friend's gaze.

            Blaise jumped slightly, then shook her head guiltily.  "What?  No.  I'm not."

            "You're lying."

            "Queenie, I wasn't watching him."

            "You had such a crush on him last year-"

            "I did not!" Blaise cut her off irritably.  "I thought he was . . . interesting."

            "Which is just your complicated way of telling me that you think he's cute."

            Blaise pursed her lips and studied her essay very carefully, avoiding the steady gaze of her friend.  She hated when Queenie stared at her, it was like having someone probe inside her mind.  Her friend's dark gaze was very unnerving.

            "You know you can tell me," Queenie said softly.

            "He's interesting," Blaise snapped.  "That's all."

            Queenie shrugged.  "Okay.  If you don't actually have a crush on him you won't care that I overheard Andrea Moon talking about Gwendolyn Languir."

            Blaise's eyes snapped upward.  "What about Gwendolyn?"  She knew Draco's father rather fancied Gwendolyn's family as the perfect purebloods besides his own and even at thirteen there had already been talk of arranged marriages and things like that.  It drove Blaise crazy.  She was pureblood, as were Queenie and half the other girls in Slytherin.  What was so special about Gwendolyn Languir?

            Queenie smiled slightly.  "Andrea said that Gwendolyn's father is trying to resist the whole marriage thing.  He doesn't think the Malfoys are as pureblood as they claim to be."

            Blaise snorted.  "Explain to me please what's so wonderful about Gwendolyn?"

            Queenie's smile was wiped off her face and her look suddenly became very serious.  "Haven't you ever listened to the rumours, Blaise?"

            "What rumours?"

            "About Gwendolyn and her family."

            Blaise shook her head.  "I've never heard anything other than the arranged marriage stuff.  Why?  Should I have heard more?"

            Queenie's voice dropped even lower and she moved over the sit on the same couch as her friend.  "Since she started here last year there've been rumours about her family.  Her mother and father both went to Hogwarts but she's not really a pureblood."

            "Then why would Draco's father want his son marrying her?"

            "Shh," Queenie said quickly.  "Don't talk so loud.  It's really strained . . . her mother's father's father was a muggle, or something like that.  It goes back to her great grandparents."

            "So?"

            "So have you ever really looked at her?"

            "Gwendolyn?  Sure, she's my Herbology partner."

            Queenie sighed.  "You don't get it, do you?"

            "If you'd stop beating around the bush and just tell me maybe I would get it," Blaise snapped.

            Queenie sighed again.  "Her mother's maiden name was Riddle before she married Gwendolyn's father."

            "Yeah . . . and?"

            "Tom Riddle," Queenie hissed, her voice dropping lower still.  "You-Know-Who."

            Blaise snorted.  "You're telling me that because Gwendolyn's mother's maiden name was the same as Voldemort's there's some connection?"

            "Look at her very closely next time you see her, Blaise," Queenie said haughtily.  "She has the same strong features, the same dark hair and the same green eyes.  She looks cold."

            "We all look cold," Blaise said.

            "She's different.  I believe it."

            "You believe that Gwendolyn Languir is Volde-"

            "Stop saying his name," Queenie said sharply.

            Blaise sighed and continued.  "You really believe that Gwendolyn is You-Know-Who's grand daughter?"

            Queenie nodded.  "I really do.  She looks so much like he did before . . . well, before Harry Potter defeated him.  And the name . . . it's just too much to be a coincidence."

            "Well, believe whatever you want.  I don't think it's true.  There's absolutely no evidence that Vol- er, You-Know-Who had any children."

            "But there's no evidence to prove that he didn't."

            Blaise shrugged.  "There's also no evidence to prove that I'm not a flesh eating werewolf by the light of the full moon, but are you going to believe that?"

            "I might," Draco drawled, collapsing into the couch on Blaise's other side. 

            "Sod off," Queenie said, collecting her things and sitting back in her original chair.  "We're having a serious discussion here."

            "About what?" Draco asked.

            Blaise opened her mouth to tell him, but Queenie silenced her with a glare.

            "None of your business, Malfoy," she said as Blaise shrugged apologetically.

            Draco smiled.  "Well, your loss.  I happen to be a great conversationalist."

            "Big words," Blaise said, a hint of a smile on her lips.  "I'm surprised you know words like that when you have friends like them."  She gestured in the direction of Crabbe and Goyle.

            "And aren't you always the pleasant little princess?" Draco asked.

            Blaise's smile froze.  "Do you expect everyone you drop to their knees around you, Malfoy?"

            He grinned and squeezed her shoulder.  "Just you, Zabini.  Only you."  He stood up and sauntered away, motioning for Crabbe and Goyle to follow him.

            "He is such a jerk," Queenie hissed venomously.  "I don't get what you see in him, Blaise."

            Her brown eyes followed Draco across the room and Blaise shrugged deeply.  "Neither do I, Queenie."

End Chapter One


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

            // 19 October, 1992

            You need to talk to me, y'know.  I'm trying, I'm really trying but the teachers keep catching me wandering off on my own.  That pansy Lockhart actually gave me detention last night.  He doesn't know anything.  You don't give a Slytherin like me a detention for being out of the common room too late.  Just annoys me, y'know?  

            _Calm yourself, Draco._

            You.  Where the bloody hell have you been?  It's been a month . . . no, it's been more than a month since we last talked.  What's wrong with you anyway?  I'm trying to show you what you want to see but all you do is-

            _Silence.___

            . . . Sorry, Tom.

            _I've been thinking, Draco.  Thinking.  Which is more than I can say for you._

            I've been trying.

            _But you haven't been thinking, have you?_

            Of course I've been thinking.

            _Well, your thought processes obviously aren't as advanced as I had hoped.  What did I expect anyway?  You're only thirteen._

            Listen, you're trapped in my book.  Do you get that?  What would you do if I just shut you up and didn't bother with you anymore?

            . . . 

            . . .  Tom?

            _I wish you could see me, Draco.  I wish you could see how hard I'm laughing._

            Why're you laughing?

            _You don't get it, do you?  You've already released me.  It's only a little bit of me but you've still released me.  I'm coming back whether you want to help me anymore or not.  _

            . . . Oh.

            _And Draco?___

            Yes, Tom?

            _If you don't help me you'll die just like the rest._

            Tom . . . Tom, I'll help.

            . . .  Tom?

            . . . 

            . . . 

            Tom, I don't want to die like the rest. //

            Draco waited for a response for more than ten minutes but received nothing.  Tom had disappeared to . . . well, to wherever it was he disappeared to when he wasn't conversing with Draco.  The entire conversation had bothered him somewhat, made him feel a little sick, a little unpleasant inside.  His hand was shaking slightly and he dropped his quill to the table in the common room, silently admonishing himself.  He wasn't allowed to become shaky and uncertain because he had wanted this.

            It wasn't as though he was trying to take back his promise to Tom.  He wanted to help more than anything but it wasn't easy when the apparently infallible Dark Lord wouldn't even help him out by communicating with him once in a while.  When Draco had opened the book a few days after their first conversation Tom had seemed very angry and he demanded Draco go to the second floor girl's bathroom the first chance he had.  

            The only problem with that plan was that Draco hadn't had many chances and the ones he did have were all foiled by a random professor or, even worse, a nosy prefect.  So far he'd tried to get to the girl's loo exactly six times and every single time someone had caught him.  The most recent had definitely been the most appalling when Professor Snape had stumbled over him trying to sneak through the constant puddle outside of the bathroom and arched his eyebrow.

            "Going to . . . the bathroom, Draco?" Snape had asked, practically sneering right in Draco's face.

            "Uh . . . no, sir.  I just wanted to see where the flood was coming from," he had said quickly and then walked briskly in the direction of the Slytherin common room before Snape could decide whether or not to ask more questions.

            Draco wasn't afraid of receiving a detention from his head of house, but he wasn't about to answer any questions for Snape that he really didn't have answers for.  Voldemort had fallen before Draco was really old enough to remember who had followed him and who hadn't.  He had this mental image of Snape's black eyes glittering behind the dark mask of a Death Eater, but it was a little much for Draco to presume his Potion's Master had been a follower of Voldemort without any proof.  The last thing he needed was someone finding out about his plan to help Tom and stopping him.  He could never be too sure how Snape might react.

            Biting his bottom lip pensively, Draco closed the diary and stared at it for a long moment.  The common room was mostly empty, those who weren't in the library doing homework were outside enjoying the last of the pleasant weather before storms and snow reached Hogwarts.  Perhaps now was the best chance he would have to go to the second floor bathroom, before the students came rushing back to the common room for the night.  The halls would more than likely be mostly deserted and if he planned it correctly he could slip in and out before the teachers began to patrol for students who were late getting back.

            He stood, tucking the diary into his robes and leaving his quill and inkwell where they sat on the table.  If anyone wanted to steal his things he would let them but he didn't want the diary falling into the wrong hands.  It seemed stupid to think of, especially when it was just a blank diary but there was no telling what another Slytherin might think to steal.  The last thing he needed was to lose the diary when Tom was angry with him.  Draco really didn't fancy dying just to let a Dark Lord lose on the world again.

            Draco left the common room quickly, avoiding the surprised stares of the other students.  He didn't want to answer any questions about where he was going so close to curfew.  Instead he swept through the portrait hole and down the hall toward the stairs.  He had heard Lockhart going on earlier about a staff meeting that evening and apparently it hadn't let out yet.  Not even Filch was prowling the main hall when he got there, though Mrs. Norris did stare at him for a long moment.

            He moved past the cat and started up the stairs, his eyes darting carefully in case any prefects decided to sneak up on him.  He wasn't necessarily breaking any rules, but if the prefect was from any other house than his own and especially if the prefect was one Percy Weasley they'd want to know exactly where he was going and what he was doing.  Come to think of it, Slytherin was unfairly discriminated again.  It wasn't as though they were always sneaking about the castle trying to unleash Dark Lords upon the world.  It just so happened that Draco was doing just that, but he'd never done anything like it before.

            Slipping past the staff room, Draco snuck up the stairs to the second floor and walked down the corridor that led to the flooded bathroom.  It was the only bathroom in the entire school that was always completely unusable, so Draco had no idea why Tom needed him to go inside.  He had debated asking Blaise Zabini if she knew anything about it but the icy looks he'd been receiving from her for the past three weeks didn't make it seem like she wanted to speak to him at all.  

            "Ugh," he murmured, tiptoeing through the puddle and slipping into the bathroom.  His shoes were soaked and the bottom hem of his cloak wasn't faring much better.

            "Well, we're here," he said aloud, surveying the darkened bathroom.  "Is it everything you hoped?"

            "SHH!" someone hissed suddenly and very loudly.

            Draco blinked and stepped backward, his foot landing in a very icy puddle.  "Who's there?" he asked.

            A ghost floated into sight, twirling a strand of her dark hair around a finger and peering at Draco from behind her thick glasses.

            "You needn't be afraid of me," she said softly.  "I only wanted you to be quiet.  I do hate when people disrupt my toilet."

            "Er . . . your toilet?" Draco asked.

            The ghost nodded.  "Yes.  I haunt this toilet.  I'm Myrtle."

            The name clicked in Draco's mind and he grinned broadly.  "You're Moaning Myrtle, eh?"

            Myrtle's expression darkened and her lower lip jutted out.  "Don't call me that!  Everyone calls me that and I hate.  Miserable Moaning Myrtle."

            Draco's grin grew.  "What's so special about this toilet then?" he asked.  "You must like it a lot if you haunt it, eh Moaning Myrtle?"

            "I said stop it!" she exclaimed, tears welling up in her eyes.  "You think you're so smart, don't you?  In your silly Slytherin tie and uniform.  You don't know what happened in this bathroom."

            "Tell me."

            "No!  Leave me alone," she simpered, floating back toward one of the cubicles.

            Draco rolled his eyes.  "Fine.  Don't tell me."  He turned away and kept surveying the room.  "So what exactly do you want here, Tom?"

            He waited, studying the row of cracked sinks under the stained mirror.  There was nothing, only the sound of Myrtle's pathetic sobs coming from the cubicle she had disappeared into.  It Tom had had a real reason for sending him to the bathroom he should have told him.  Draco removed the diary from his robes and opened it, staring at the blank page and waiting for some kind of instruction.  There was nothing.

            "This is ridiculous," he growled, pocketing the book and turning back toward the door.                          

As he reached for the doorknob he finally heard it.  At first it was just a low whisper barely audible to his ears but it grew in volume very quickly.  Within seconds the hiss was filling his head, drowning his senses and pulling him inside his own body.  It sounded like it was coming from the sinks, so Draco stumbled over, grabbing at the chipped stone to keep himself from tumbling to the ground and stared at the taps.  A tiny serpent was staring back at him, it's tongue flickering out over it's fangs and it's hiss filling the room.

            Slowly he was able to make out words under the hissing; words that he couldn't string together into coherent sentences.  

            "Kill."

            "Rip."

            An especially loud hiss filled his head and then, "Blood."  

            Then suddenly, he felt him.  Draco could feel Tom Riddle enter him, the longer limbs stretching out, and then tucking into his own.  His own hands felt alien, he couldn't control anything anymore, not even the turn of his neck.  Tom Riddle had flowed into him somehow; he had taken over Draco's body.

            _My eyes and ears.___

            The voice filled him, whispering inside of his head and echoing in the recesses of his mind.

            "My, my, Myrtle.  Still haven't left this ridiculous toilet?" Draco's mouth formed the words and he could hear his voice speaking them but it seemed so faraway.

            "I told you to leave me alone," she wailed.

            "I'll never leave you alone," Tom said.  

            The sobbing stopped and Myrtle peeked out from her cubicle.  "You sound different."

            Draco felt his mouth turn up in a smile.  "You know me, Myrtle.  You're here because of me."

            Her face fell and she stared at him.  "I'm here because I died.  Because two big yellow eyes stared at me and I died."

            "Yes, yes, think what you want."

            Myrtle frowned and floated toward Draco's body.  He could see everything that was happening but it was beyond him to speak of even move.  

            "What does that mean?" she asked.

            Tom raised one of Draco's hands and waved it dismissively.  "Nothing.  Go back to crying in the U-Bend."  

            He turned his back on the ghost, pointedly ignoring her sniffling and moved toward the sinks once more.  Draco watched through his own eyes as if he were a stranger in his body.  He watched as Tom ran Draco's fingers over the taps as if he was searching for something.  He moved down the row and then his eyes caught something glinting in the fading light of the bathroom.   

            "Here," he murmured.  "It's still here."  His fingers were running over the serpent that was etched into the tap.  

            Draco watched his own hands finger the tap lightly without his control.  He watched as his body moved away and listened as a breath was heaved into his lungs and expelled quickly.  Seconds later as Tom used his body to bend over the sinks his vision blurred slightly.  

            Tom paused.  "Getting tired?"

            Draco didn't know how Tom expected him to answer, but apparently whatever he had done was enough.

            "It will take time getting used to me," Tom said, still using Draco's voice.  "This won't be easy.  For tonight I'll let you rest.  We'll come back another time."

            Just as quickly as he had come, he was gone.  Draco collapsed to the floor in a heap and suddenly he could feel his arms and legs again.  They were trembling, shocks ran through his body as he tried to stand and found that he couldn't.  Everything ached like he'd run a marathon or swum across the lake six times.  He felt like he'd never have enough energy to stand again.

            Slowly it came back to him and slowly Draco got to his feet, shaking with the exertion.  Having Tom inside of him was like nothing he'd ever experienced before.  He had felt helpless and powerful at the same time; he had been unable to move but the residual power left behind was amazing.  He didn't know what had happened, but he didn't care either.  Tom was going to come back as strong as ever and Draco was going to help him.

            He grinned and stumbled to the door, flinging it open and splashing through the puddle in the corridor.  He hurt, but he managed to fight his way down the two flights of stairs to end up back in the main hall.  Gasping for air and holding his side as a painful stitch blossomed there, Draco started down the stairs to the dungeons and ran into someone's back, nearly knocking them both to the bottom of the stairs.

            "Draco!"  Blaise's eyes widened and she reached out to grab his arm to prevent him from falling.

            "Blaise," he replied tiredly, leaning against her for a moment and catching his breath.

            "Are you okay?" she asked, lowering her voice so that the others walking down the stairs couldn't hear her.

            He looked at her and narrowed his eyes.  "Like you care."

            Blaise pursed her lips and shrugged.  "Fine, don't tell me.  Then you'll never know if I actually care."  She let go of his arm and started to leave him when the hissing voice came back.

            _Who is she?_

            Draco cried out and dropped to his knees on the stone steps, holding his head in his hands.  It hurt so badly to hear Tom's voice inside of his head, more than it had hurt to have the memory invade him completely.

            _Who?_

            "Blaise!" he said too loudly.

            She turned and saw him fallen.  "Draco, what's wrong?"

            "Blaise Zabini," he gasped, hoping she couldn't hear him.

            Her eyes narrowed and she came back up the stairs, dropping to her knees by his side.  "Do you need to go to the hospital wing?"

_            We need her._

            "Why?" Draco asked.

            Blaise frowned.  "Why?  You look like you're in a lot of pain, that's why."

            _Are you willing to give me your life, Draco?_

            "No."

            Blaise touched his arm.  "Are you sure?  I can take you."

            _I need a life.  To become whole again I need a human life.  I want her.  I want you to make her mine._

            "Anything, just . . . stop it," Draco stammered.

            Blaise backed away slightly.  "Draco, you're not making any sense."

            The voice was gone.  Tom had left his head and he could stand again, his eyes still unfocused and blurry.  Blaise was staring at him in concern and he forced a smile to his face.

            "Headache," he said.  "A Quidditch injury."

            "Oh . . . during practice?"

            "Yeah," Draco said, nodding and continuing down the stairs.  "I fell off my broom yesterday and hit my head."

            "Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital wing?  You looked like you were in a lot of pain."

            Draco grinned and touched her shoulder gently.  "Don't worry about me, Blaise.  I know how to take care of myself."  He was about to open his mouth again and ask Blaise about their classes so far, but Queenie Greengrass appeared below and stood at the bottom of the stairs glaring at him.

            "Blaise, come on," she said impatiently.  

            Blaise smiled apologetically at Draco, then quickly walked down the rest of the stairs to her friend.  They disappeared around the corner talking and laughing, and Draco was left standing alone, glaring at the place where Queenie had stood.

            "Hi, Draco."

            He turned slightly to see Gwendolyn Languir walking softly down the stairs.  Her mouth didn't even turn up in a smile of acknowledgement but her green eyes followed him as she went past.  

            "Hi, Gwen," he replied, watching her go.  She looked like she was floating, each step delicate on the stair.  There was something different about her, there always had been something strange and a little weird about that girl.

            Draco sighed and continued on his way down to the common room and into his dormitory, not even pausing to speak to Andrea Moon and Tracey Davis even when Tracey nearly threw herself at him to stop him.  He stomped up the stairs and went to his bed, drawing the curtains around him with a flick of his wand.  Immediately he took out the diary and began to write.

            // What in the hell was that?

            _When?_

            On the stairs.

            _Who was she?_

            Blaise Zabini, I told you.

            _How do you know her?_

            She's in my year.

            _And the other?___

            She's in my year too.

            _But what is her name?_

            Gwendolyn Languir.

            _. . . Yes . . . Languir.  Very good._

            What are you going on about, Tom?

            _You did very well tonight, Draco.  Very well indeed.  I know it's hard to have what's left of me inside of you but until you can convince Blaise to come down to the Chamber of Secrets and give herself to me it's the best we can do._

            Wait . . . Chamber of Secrets?

            _I'll explain everything tomorrow, Draco.  You have another assignment from me.  You have to make Blaise Zabini trust you more than she trusts anyone.  When you lead her to me she has to come willingly and give herself up for me._

            Are you going to kill her?

            _Does that thought bother you?_

            . . . Not as much as I thought it might.

            _Good.  Don't let it bother you, Draco.  Just make her trust you._

            I can do that.

            _Good night, Draco._

            Good night, Tom. //

End Chapter Two


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